


l'Heure d'Hiver

by binz, shiplizard



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: 19th Century, 19th Century Physiotherapy, Age of Sail, Gen, Vignette, Yuletide, Yuletide 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 15:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from Bush’s recovery at Chateaux de Graçay, during the winter of 1810. With their roles reversed, and Hornblower providing support to a weakened Bush, Hornblower reflects on all that his friend has meant to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	l'Heure d'Hiver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morgan (duckwhatduck)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckwhatduck/gifts).



> Happy yuletide! :D Hope it's merry and bright. 
> 
>  
> 
> Content note for (period context) ableism.

There were no windows in Bush’s room in Chateaux de Graçay; here in its warmth, with the cheerful fire kept blazing by regular tending from the maids, it was almost possible to forget the dreary grey skies outside and the cold rain lashing at the black and grey landscape. 

It was almost too cozy-- hour after hour spent in the chateau, in the little room here with Bush became suffocating, the heat stifling. Hornblower tried not to resent the confinement: they had no choice but to accept their restriction to the chateau until spring came and their chance of escape with it. They were prisoners of circumstance, yes, but not of the Comte’s generosity. He should be grateful-- he was, really grateful-- to the Comte and Marie, for hiding them, housing them with such care and hospitality. 

He forced a smile, readied a boisterous tone, and turned to Bush: “I dare say Brown’s off in the kitchens again,” he said. “Fat Jeanne and her pretty daughters will keep him there all day, I don’t doubt.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” said Bush, without his usual liveliness, and Hornblower frowned, concerned. Bush’s broad face was pale, wan; he had been worn down by his long convalescence, by their jarring, terrible journey, but throughout he had seemed determined to keep up the appearance of good spirits, forcing cheer and stoic resolve for his Captain. Now Hornblower could see the toll the their trials had taken on Bush-- strong, loyal Bush, who had come so close to death.

He felt instantly ashamed at himself. He had come to take Bush’s constant strength too much for granted-- it was the habit of years, now, to expect the man at his side at a moment’s notice. He often forgot that he had ever been Bush’s junior officer, that he had seen Bush fall in battle before-- Hornblower remembered that sickening moment now, when Bush was found among the dead after the recapture of _Renown_ , how his heart had stopped in his chest. Bush had smiled for him even then, even half-drained of blood and delirious; he was smiling bravely for him now. 

Hornblower knew Bush must have seen the concern on his face-- that he was doing his best now to put him at ease. A well-spring of affection opened in him, as warm and heavy in his belly as a rich, hot meal and wine. He grinned back, dignity momentarily forgotten, and was pleased to see a bit of colour rise on Bush’s pale cheeks. 

“You seem quite preoccupied, Mister Bush,” he scolded. 

“No, no, sir,” Bush hasted to reassure him. “Just considering that chair over there--” he jerked his chin toward the little table at the far end of the room, the chair Hornblower had been sitting in earlier in the day canted at an off-angle. “Fifteen feet. I could reach it, I think.”

Hornblower peered at the distance, considering. “More like twenty.”

It was twice the distance Bush had managed yet, despite his exhausting practice with Brown. He had already spent his morning putting himself through his paces, driving himself as hard as he’d ever driven any young midshipman or new hand placed under his care. Hornblower saw at once that Bush would not be swayed from the task he had set for himself. “What aid shall I give you?” he asked. 

Bush could not quite disguise his reluctance. “Oh don’t trouble yourself--”

“Nonsense, man. I may not have Brown’s physique but I can certainly provide you with an arm.”

Bush hesitated a moment-- concern and something softer warring on his honest face. “All right then, sir, if you could stand portside me here-- and put your arm about there--” 

Hornblower followed Bush’s instructions with the care he might have given an admiral’s orders.

“Handsomely now,” Bush said, once he had Hornblower arranged to his satisfaction, and together they raised him from the bed to his feet. He recovered much faster than he had even days before, only a short, “belay that,” and time to steady himself before he began again. “Square away.”

It was painstaking slow going; there was a moment, halfway to the chair, when Bush paused so long between one step and the next, his big body burning hot, his broad chest heaving, that Hornblower felt dizzyingly certain that they were somehow one immovable object, becalmed there in the cold little room, the walls spinning. 

Then Bush ground out “Square away,” and they began again. 

Hornblower, shot through with shame, pushed some levity into his voice. “Here we are, Bush, more than halfway. At this rate you’ll be stomping around my quarterdeck putting fear into the hearts of farmers and volunteers in no time. By God, remember Foreman, back on old _Hotspur_? I dare say you’re still the voice in his nightmares. Here we go, all we need is Brown to count out the time.” 

Bush panted beside him, each breath catching and straining; Hornblower kept up the encouragement, fixing his voice and expression to try and hide his weakeness-- the way his heart felt like it was seizing, tight and hard, at each laboured, pained sound Bush made.

“Almost there, here we go.” 

Bush stumbled, just the tiniest misstep, his wooden leg dragging again the stone floor--he gave an involuntary cry of pain and nearly pitched forward, reaching out involuntarily for Hornblower. Hornblower’s heart caught in his throat, all the more at the flash of fear that crossed Bush’s white face, and he braced him up to keep him from falling on his wounded leg. 

“Remember in Kingston,” Hornblower said suddenly, desperate for something more to say, to distract them both from the last endless feet before them. “Well, that is the question, isn’t it, if you remember Kingston at all! I am not too proud to admit, there are some hours that are nothing but black spaces in my memory-- a hundred pounds each, I cannot fathom how we managed it. A young man’s game, and no doubt of that. There was that one inn-- you know the one I mean, you must. That pretty lass, with the pink flowers-- oh, had she taken a shine to you.”

Bush was listening to him, distracted from his discomfort. “And I have never seen you… with such a taste for rum. Before or after.” 

“I think I had as much as I will ever need in my life, and not half as much as you.” 

Then they were at the chair. Bush’s earnest face showed all his misery; he lowered himself into the it by the strength of his upper body, gritting his teeth as he fumbled with the strap for his wooden leg. 

Hornblower stooped beside him, brushing his hands aside to do the thing himself-- Bush’s hands were trembling. The pain must be tremendous, but Bush hadn’t uttered a syllable except for that first cry. “Is it very bad?” 

“Not so bad, sir,” said Bush, with obvious effort. He clenched and unclenched at the sides of the chair, putting the lie to his words. 

Horblower set the wooden peg aside, carefully pulled off the basket that cupped Bush’s stump. Bush drew a breath in through his teeth. 

“Almost done, now. Brave man,” said Hornblower, gentle unwrapping the bandages to examine the skin-- Bush’s stump was red and inflamed, the skin too soft for this hard use. When he held his hand by it, he thought he could feel a faint heat-- but there was no smell of infection, thank God. Any touch, let alone the full weight of Bush’s body, must be misery. 

Bush hissed again, and leaned forward to catch at his hand before he could replace the bandages-- “Leave it, sir, just for a minute. The cool air’s a blessing.” 

“Yes.” Hornblower’s fingers closed around Bush’s hand, and suddenly Bush was clinging to him as he would cling to a line to keep from drowning. 

“Sir,” said Bush, miserably. “God, sir, it stings like the devil. Will it always feel like this?” 

“No,” Hornblower assured him. “No, it’s only the new skin-- you’ve been treating it too hard these last few days. It’s still soft and dainty as my hands as a midshipman-- though it’s the walking, not sliding down a line that’s done for you, Lieutenant.” 

Bush made himself smile at this facetious self-deprecation, this deliberate and awkward joke. He would never believe such a thing of his captain-- no, realized Hornblower, that was not right. Bush knew his flaws more than any other man under his command-- it was only that he was possessed of a queer certainty that his weaknesses did not matter. “A matter of callouses, then,” said Bush. Loyally, he added: “I was a raw midshipman m’self, once, sir. Hands like a woman.” 

“You, Bush? Never,” said Hornblower. “These hands have always been strong and hard, I’d say.” 

Bush smiled a little bashfully. He was still holding Hornblower’s hand-- gently, now, no longer gripping for dear life. He had held his captain’s hand like this in the carriage-- so tenderly, his calloused thumb stroking the skin between Hornblower’s thumb and index finger. 

He stopped when he realized it; Hornblower made no sign that he had noticed, either that Bush was caressing his hand or that he stopped, simply gave a firm nod and said, “No more walking today, Lieutenant; you will only get the virgin flesh into blisters, and that won’t do. Put your arm around my shoulder; we will get you back to bed.” 

Bush obliged him-- made no protest of putting his captain to the trouble, and this gave away his exhaustion as much as the faint trembling Hornblower could feel in his arm when Bush wrapped it around him. He was still so strong-- strong, solid Bush. 

“Good, good,” he said, and bracing himself, “now, heave!”

Together they maneuvered Bush over to his bed, by dint of Bush hopping and Hornblower hauling, and got him down on it laying back against the pillows. Hornblower could not help himself from smiling down in fond relief at Bush as he tucked the blankets around him.

“Thank you, sir,” Bush said; there was earnest gratitude in those blue eyes, usually so boyish and merry. There was regret. Perhaps even Bush had taken his own strength for granted, and was surprised to find his muscular, able body failing him. He was pale; exhausted by the short journey across the room, and likely tired-- he had been sleeping more than he probably ever had in his active life, as he healed. 

“You know, Bush,” Hornblower said, deliberately, thinking of a speech to reassure him, “I would rather have you by my side as a cripple than any other two officers in sound body.” He was surprised to realize how true it was; the practical considerations of mobility and the conspicuous missing limb were there, and yet overshadowed by his relief at Bush’s company.

“Sir--” Bush began to protest. 

“Not a gripe from you, Lieutenant.” 

Bush acquiesced; he let out a deep sigh, and shut his eyes. “Tired, sir.” 

“I’m not surprised. Rest.” 

Bush’s hand lay on the low mattress, slightly curled, the palm up. Without quite looking at it, Hornblower leaned forward and put his own hand into it. With his own softer thumb, he stroked Bush’s hand, and felt the rough fingers close softly around his own. 

He would rather have Bush-- loyal, unimaginative, unyielding, wonderful Bush-- than anyone. To be alone in France would have been a nightmare, even with Brown’s strength to call on. His lieutenant’s convalescence would give him something to put his mind to-- but his friend’s presence would keep him from despairing too much, sinking into a black depression. Bush always drove his demons away, when they were on him. 

Bush’s breathing was slowing and deepening, now; he was not asleep, but on the brink of it. 

Another wave of fondness welled up-- Hornblower was consumed by affection almost painful in its intensity, unable to express it, unwilling to name it. All the years they had served together came back before him, for Bush had been there when he had been junior, when he had been so bitterly poor-- they had had their debauch in Kingston together and Bush had helped to plan his wedding. There had been a few years apart-- Hornblower had been sent into the continent, and then had the _Atropos_ , and how he had missed Bush when faced by Lieutenant Jones’ inability to understand his moods. 

In a moment of rashness he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Bush’s brow, and then his cheek, the feeling of that salt-roughened skin under his lips taking on exaggerated significance. It seemed necessary-- it seemed like he had needed to do this, had been waiting for months for this, to convey some of the gratitude he felt for so much loyal service, such unflagging friendship, things that Hornblower struggled to express in words and tried now to communicate by his kisses. The wild urgency drained away, and in the moments that followed, Hornblower’s active mind was blessedly at peace. His constant planning and self analysis gave way to the simple satisfaction of knowing Bush was present, the pleasant memory of living warmth against his lips.

Bush was still not quite asleep-- his fingers twitched, and his mouth curved into a minute, peaceful smile. In another moment, he really was asleep. After a few minutes he even began to snore softly, but Hornblower sat by his mattress for a long time, watching over him, still clasping his hand.


End file.
